Fat off your compliments, I once entertained the idea of writing a book. But then I realized: what would be the fucking point? What would be the grand insight into the human condition that would be imparted by the last page’s turn? What is the filling in my donut? What’s more, four years of blank looks from the snow-in-cabo crowd have emphatically informed me that I am an acquired taste (I am a haughty naughty bawdy.). I do not think I have far to go.